On August 19, as I planned my lemonade stand crawl for National Lemonade Day tomorrow, a perplexing pronouncement pinged my PDA: “Hue Splatman has given Mayor Butterbloggs six hours to surrender Adver City before he detonates a network of non-yellow paint bombs.”
I gasped. “Suffering citrus, how will we paint the town yellow? Lemon Fest will be ruined!”
Tax auditor Wanda Leechwell scowled at me over the stacks of receipts on her desk. “Mr. Montes, I appreciate that you were able to substantiate the amount listed under ‘Other Expenses’ on your return. But I fail to see how any of these purchases have a legitimate business purpose.”
I squirmed in my chair,
Entering the sprawling bullpen at Inter-Consolidated Global, I noticed a sprig of colorful balloons sprouting from my cubicle. Clearly someone else knew what today was.
Tina Vallejo, the cute, freckled brunette who issued my ID badge last May, taped up the last of the glistening neon streamers over my workstation. “Happy birthday, Doug!”
“Bow-Shock, your arrow-neous ways are off target! Seeing you quiver before justice is my aim!” Arms akimbo, I stand astride the ledge of the shattered window of the jewelry store.
Clad in a neon-green jumpsuit, Bow-Shock responds to my o-pun assault with a hail of arrows.
I backflip over the onslaught, my
After my brother Barney and I complete the second wrapping of tinsel, we spread out Mami’s lock-lid ornament tubs.
Barney nudges me. “So, Arnold, any thoughts on the job offer? I know, you’re an”—faux crystal bell in each hand, he air-quotes—“entrepreneur. You can still be your own boss. A boss that
The glass roof of the museum’s atrium shatters, and I duck behind a pillar. Twenty-three rotund robots rappel through the jagged opening on extensible steel arms. Riding atop the center bot is a short, pudgy man in a purple-and-green-striped lab coat. Frizzy orange curls encircle his bald scalp like clouds around a shiny mountaintop.
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“It’s all over, Psycho-Metric! Drop the kilobomb!” I practice the command sotto voce as I scan the harbor, searching for the crimson lights of the mad mastermind’s speedboat.
Bloodbath Bridge looms above the dark water, a line of gold lamps tracing the gentle arcs of its suspension cables. Psycho-Metric has commandeered the six-lane crossing, and his goons are
“When Super Guy is busy, call Super Gus!”
My purple-and-orange logo fades into a montage of my greatest work set to a dramatic score. To be fair, most of the guys I’m pummeling in the amateur cell phone videos are not actual villains but Justice Lounge drunks hoping to look tough by beating up
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